Matters of Seduction
by Spikesgirl58
Summary: Written for Unconventional Courtships using the intros to romance novels- Special Agent Illya Kuryakin was anxious to leave his desk job and get out in the field, but his handsome boss, Napoleon, denied each request he made. So when the opportunity to catch a cunning serial killer arose, Illya would do anything to prove himself.


Illya pushed the food around on his plate and sighed. A year ago, he was on a sub, stationed in the Atlantic, keeping tabs on some nefarious threats to the Soviet Union. Now he was stuck behind a desk.

"Cheer up, Illya. It could be worse." Illya looked up from his plate as Alex Haggins sat. The two had met at Survival School. Illy had helped him pass explosives class. Andrew had helped him with his English and mastering idioms. And together they had passed some pretty enjoyable nights in each other arms.

"What am I doing wrong, Alex?" Illya sat back in his chair and looked around the Canteen. "I've gone through the training, I've pretty much out-shot, out-fought, out-everything everyone in the room and yet they are out on assignments. I'm… typing."

Alex's smile was devilish, "Well, it is nice to have a typist who doesn't have an issue with our handwriting or needs to be briefed on what this or that means."

"You're not helping." Illya dropped his glasses to the table and rubbed his eyes. "What do I need to do?"

"Lose the glasses, for one thing." Then Alex shook his head. "No, without them you look about twelve."

"I can't help that."

"And honestly, Illya, you look about as dangerous as a bowl of vanilla pudding." Alex pushed the tray back. "You need to eat more. It's not like they are charging us for this swill."

Illya shook his head. "No, it's my third tray. I'm really full. What am I going to have to do to get Napoleon's attention?"

"You could always seduce him," Alex mumbled into his cup and Illya choked.

"The great womanizer?"

"Hey, you know what they say, if you aren't willing to play both sides, apply for Section Three. Otherwise, I guess you need to go over his head and ask Mr. Waverly what to do."

"In the USSR, you could end up shot or worse for that."

"Here, you just get dirty looks."

The loudspeaker crackled to life and a tinny voice drowned out the murmur of conversation in the room. "Would Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin report to Mr. Waverly's office?"

Alex nudged Illya. "There's you go. God is looking out for you." He held up his hand. "I know, I know, you don't believe in God."

Illya smiled, looking very young. "I was going to say that God favors the willing. Not all of us are atheists, my friend."

Illya was standing in the elevator when the doors opened and allowed his partner of three months to enter. He liked Napoleon. He was friendly and obligingly. He was the only person who challenged Illya's skills at certain things, such as chess. He was a man of thought and cunning while Illya tended to follow his gut instead. It made them a good team, or it would if Napoleon would let him out of the building. There had been four assignments so far and all Illya's involvement had been limited to typing up Napoleon's notes. It would seem that Solo still meant solo in Napoleon's world.

"How are things going?" Napoleon asked, as if uneasy in Illya's company, although they had been alone together many times, even having dinner a time or two.

"Slow, but perhaps it is picking up now." Illya tried to downplay his excitement. He'd only been to Waverly's office a few times, when he'd first arrived, when he'd returned from Survival School and then to be assigned to Napoleon.

"I'm wondering what's going on." Napoleon's mind seemed elsewhere, as if one some other mission.

They got off the elevator and approached Waverly's office. The door slid open as they neared and Illya hung back to let Napoleon precede him a step or two. It did wonders for Napoleon's ego.

There was a trio of strangers already seated at the table as they entered and Illya followed Napoleon to two empty seats and sat.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, thank you both for joining us." _Finally,_ seemed to linger. Mr. Waverly always seemed to think that they simply lazed about what for him to call, when in fact, they were kept fairly busy just with the day-to-day tasks of Section Two. "These gentlemen are from the FBI. Lewis, Connors, and Tubbs."

"What brings our friends in the FBI to our humble abode?" Napoleon asked, politely. They didn't always see eye-to-eye with that agency or that of the CIA.

The man nearest to Napoleon, Connors, spoke up. "We need help. You are both aware of the South Side Slaughterer?"

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances and Napoleon shook his head. "No, I can't say that I am."

"The most horrific murder spree to hit the city and you know nothing about it?" A man with salt-and-pepper hair, Tubbs, slammed a fist into the table and both men went for their weapons. Waverly held up a hand and they relaxed.

"Uprising in Istanbul, coup in Argentina, leaking of documents from the German Secret Service." Napoleon ticked off his last three affairs

"Don't forget the assassination attempt in Bahrain," Illya reminded him.

"Thanks. That's been where my head has been over the past three months. I've only been in town for a grand total of five days since March. It's now July. When I get home, the last thing on my mind is getting caught up with the local news. Sorry."

"What about you?" Tubbs focused upon Illya.

"I tend to read on a more global scale." His British accent kept his nationality at bay.

"Maybe we made a mistake," muttered Lewis. He seemed the leader of the group.

"Nonsense," Waverly said, tending to his pipe. "These gentlemen are well equipped to help you."

"I have to admit he has the right look." Lewis studied Illya to the point of making him want to slide under the table. And he doesn't look like he can punch his way out of a paper sack."

"Don't underestimate him," Napoleon snapped. "How made black belts do you have, Illya?"

"Seven in different disciplines," Illya answered without ego. An agent had to have at least one even to be considered for Section Two.

"He could take all three of you down without even breaking a sweat." Napoleon glanced over at his partner and nodded. Illya felt strangely flattered. "It's one of his greatest field advantages."

 _Not that you've ever let me prove it,_ Illya thought. He remained silent. He learned that lesson the hard way, spent six months in Siberia, for contradicting a ranking officer. "I'm afraid I still don't understand."

"Over the past four months, there have been several murders down on the south side." Connors placed a file on the table and Waverly spun it until it was in front of Napoleon. He opened the file and began to read the first page while Illya glanced at the page behind it. "The victims are all male prostitutes between the ages of sixteen to twenty four. You can read the details in the file, but—"

"They all look like me." Illya had spread out several sheets, crime scene photographs. He pulled off his glasses. "You want to offer me up as bait."

Lewis looked as if he was going to cry or be ill. "Yes, that's exactly what we need. We tried with one of our men, but all we ended up with was another victim. We need a man who can take care of himself.

"Count Illya out," Napoleon said softly.

"What?" the FBI men and Waverly both said simultaneously.

"Do you really want to have to explain to the Kremlin that their agent is being offered up as fodder to a murderer?"

"Napoleon—" Illya started, but Solo cut him off.

"He's highly trained to take on THRUSH, not skulk around dark alleys and bars as a hooker, picking up clients." Napoleon gathered up the photos and stuffed everything back into the folder. "He's meant for greater things."

"Like filing and typing your reports?" Waverly lit his pipe. "It hasn't escaped my attention that you have, in effect, sidelined one of our top agents, Mr. Solo. Why, however, is a matter for discussion at a later date. Now we have a real issue." He turned his attention to Illya. "I can't order you to do this, Mr. Kuryakin, and I know that you might have personal issues against carrying out this assignment. If you do, voice them now."

Illya was studying Napoleon. The man was his direct supervisor and for all Illya know, this might be some elaborate scheme concocted to see if where his loyalties. One wrong word and he could be back on a plane to Moscow, deemed a failure, and Moscow didn't suffer failures. They had a way of making them disappear into the dank cells of the Lubyanka.

"I am certain that Mr. Solo is only looking out for both UNCLE's and my welfare, Mr. Waverly. You have invested a good deal of money in my training and until I am properly…" he paused as he sought the right word. "Vetted? Until I am vetted, it is a matter of caution."

Napoleon offered him a smile and Illya felt that at least he'd managed to save some face for his partner.

Tubbs cleared his throat. "While that may be true, Mr. Kuryakin, the fact remains that you might well be key in solving this case. You have the right look and, unlike our man, you have skill… unless your Mr. Waverly is just shooting the breeze."

Illya frowned at the idiom and looked over at Napoleon. "Saying you are better than you really are."

"I understand and assure you that I am as capable as you have been led to believe."

"Then there's only one more thing. Can you… you know… prostitute yourself,"

"As it was pointed out to me earlier today, in fact, if you aren't willing to perform all that is required of you, even prostituting, you don't apply for Section Two."

Napoleon looked mad enough to slam doors, if there were any doors to slam in UNCLE HQ. "This is wrong. Do you have any idea what they are asking of you?"

"Yes." Illya sat at his desk, finishing a report that he'd started before lunch. He's already checked in his top drawer. In a plain envelope was his last will and testament. They all had to have their affairs in order before taking their final oath to UNCLE. Illya didn't have much by way of property or personal goods. He'd simply been too busy first in the Navy, then with the KGB to acquire much. His books would go to the library, whatever monies he had would go to his parents. He liked to keep his life simple.

"You have a choice, Illya. You can say no."

"If I do that, Napoleon, how am I ever going to convince you that I am capable of field work? I have sat behind this desk, stymied and bored for the past three months. The last time I was this bored was in Mrs. Stravinski's poetry class, learning about the pregnant sky and the wanton air. I am a man of action."

"And if you are killed?"

"Then I will have to hope it will lead good men one step closer to catching a killer."

"Do you even know what they are asking for you to do?"

"Pose as a prostitute." Illya smiled tightly. "You might not believe this, but it wouldn't be the first time." He removed the sheet of paper and added it to the file before closing it.

Napoleon seemed genuinely flustered as he collapsed into his chair. "What? Back… home? When? I mean, how… no, wait…"

"Napoleon," Illya said gently, shaking his head. "I served on board a submarine that often spent as much as six months submerged. That is a very long time for any man, let only fifty sailors. We did what we had to in order keep our minds and our wits about us. When I came back home, there were opportunities for an agent to progress faster than usual, given certain skills. There are things a man will only whisper to another man during love making."

"I can't…"

"Why else would UNCLE even offer such a class at Survival School?"

"They do?" Napoleon managed to look embarrassed.

"You know they do, Napoleon." Illya stood and approached him. "I need to do this, Napoleon, or else I am going to need to transfer, perhaps to the London or Paris office. I don't know why you are hesitant to put me in the field, but it's where I belong and it's where I will be."

"You'll be dead!"

"Then I will die." Illya turned and walked out of the small broom closet he shared with three other junior agents. Thankfully, they were rarely there, so it wasn't bad, but now, with Napoleon just inches away, it was stifling.

Illya kicked his feet free of the rumpled sheets and glanced over at Alex. The man's eyes were close in post-coital bliss. Illya flopped back and let the fan blow over him. His own semen was drying, crusty, on his stomach, but he had no desire to clean up just yet. There were some scratches on his stomach and bruising, most from working out. They would suit his purpose.

"So, good as the island?" Alex didn't move anything except his mouth. The two of them, side by side, left very room on Illya's beds.

"Better, we didn't have fans."

"I have to admit that your call was a surprise. I thought we'd left this back on the island."

"We had, or so I thought. I'm being sent out on an assignment and I needed…"

"To relax?"

"A refresher. And to look the part. I suspect that's where the FBI agent failed."

"I don't understand, Illya." Alex had shaken his lethargy and rolled to his side, his head propped up to study the Russian. "What part?"

"Have you heard of the South Side Slaughterer?"

"I think so. He's the wacko killing off prostitutes over in… no, you're not."

Illya nodded. "I am, in effect, being sent into the lion's den. I needed to look… used."

Alex made a noise. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."

Suddenly, there was a stab to Illya's conscience and he propped himself up on his elbows. "Alex… I didn't… you haven't – ?"

"Fallen in love with you? No, I know what this is, Illya, for both of us. It's just… I wish you'd told me beforehand. I would have… marked you differently."

Relief sent Illya back to the pillow. "You did everything I asked of you. It will be enough."

"I hope so. So Napoleon is going to let you go through with this? I'm impressed."

"Not exactly. He is less than pleased. He is probably thinking that I will fail in some spectacular way and it will somehow reflect upon him."

"I dunno. Maybe there's another method to his madness. Did you ever stop to think that he might be worried about you for another reason entirely?" Alex dragged a finger up Illya's stomach. "Maybe he wants to keep you all to himself."

"The great womanizer, Napoleon Solo? He has them lined up three deep in the secretarial pool."

"Tell me how your duties of the past three months have varied from theirs my friend." Alex's fingers found a nipple and pinched it.

Illya closed his eyes and let his body react to Alex's touch. It was good to have someone you could trust. Alex's mouth started doing other things besides speaking and that suited Illya just fine. He preferred not to dwell upon Alex's words. _Imagine, Solo having those kinds of designs on him._

Illya leaned back against the bar and tried not to look too bored or too eager. It was a careful balancing act. This bar had been one of the few spots in common with the victims. Of course, there was no guarantee that the Slaughterer would pick this spot this evening, but they had a one in four chance.

A man approached. He looked as out of place as Illya felt. As he neared, Illya ran through the list of characteristics that the profiler had given him. The man fit the physical description, but so did half of the bar's clientele. Illya's eyes moved back to one guy who'd been watching him from the shadows. Since he didn't have any warning bells going off, he figured it was probably a FBI agent, guarding him. Like he needed protecting.

He came to stand by Illya, not so obviously giving him the once over. Illya glanced sideways at him, but kept most of his attention on his drink.

"I haven't seen you before." The man's accent placed him in the Midwest. Another hit. "Is this your first time here?"

"It is." Illya let more of his accent through. "I find street corners and dark alleys less appealing when the temperatures hit a certain point."

A grin answered him. "I quite agree. And you tend to meet a nicer crowd inside."

Illya permitted himself a look. "Clean cut, well dressed, and educated. Definitely a step up from my usual fare."

"Not to be hokey, but what's a good looking guy like you doing in this line of work?"

"It pays better than teaching and I like the hours." Illya finished his drink and pushed the glass away. "You?"

"The same, but different." Illya smiled at that and knew he was in by the look in the man's eyes. "Nicky." He offered a hand.

"You are Russian." The man took his hand in a firm grip and Illya felt its strength. While on the surface, this man looked as safe as his _babushka_ , Illya was will to bet the man worked out – a lot. He was careful to keep his grip light.

"I am The Russian. You may have heard of me." Illya noticed that his shadow figure was gone.

"I haven't, but I'm intrigued. Tell me, Nicky, what does your time go for?" Illya looked around, leaned close and whispered a figure. The man seemed surprised. "That much?"

"And worth every kopeck."

"What say I be the judge of that?" The man gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

Illya grabbed his black leather jacket from the neighboring stool. "Sure, it's your tab now."

"Isn't it a little hot for that?"

"Part of the look. Some want the whole effect." The truth was that there was a locator bug sewn into the collar of the jacket, another in the lining and a third in the hem. He also had a tracer in his belt bucket, shoe, and UNCLE had gone so far as to activate the one in his molar. He'd almost gotten used to the pulsing by now. No matter what, the FBI and UNCLE were determined to not lose Illya's signal.

He followed the man out and down a series of sidewalks, changing and re-changing courses a half dozen times over. No matter what, the man seemed determined that Illya not know where they were headed. The reality was that they ended up at a hotel not far from the bar where they started, but it had taken them nearly forty five minutes to get there. Illya was careful not to tip his hand, remaining silent as he walked abreast with his customer.

"Here we are, home, sweet home."

"By the way, what do I call you?"

"What's in a name?"

"Would you prefer I shout out another name at an opportune moment?" Illya shrugged as they walked past a desk clerk who became very busy with something under the front counter. They went up two flights and the man paused before a door. He unlocked it and stepped inside. Illya followed.

"You can call me… William."

"All right, William." Illya looked around the room. It was sparsely decorated, an open door revealed a bathroom and a second door hid a closet. The overhead light barely managed to pierce the area beneath it, hiding most of the room in shadows. There was a closed suitcase on a luggage rack, but what did draw Illya's attention was the mini-bar set up on the room's bureau. "Nice."

"Well, I'm a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to such things." William went to the closet and slipped off his suit jacket, hanging it up as he did. "Would you like me to take your jacket?"

Illya tossed it onto a nearby overstuffed chair. From the looks of it, it was even older than he was. "It isn't used to good treatment. I can't take the chance of it getting spoiled."

"You are quite unlike any other person of your profession I've ever met," William admitted as he closed the door and walked to the bureau. He started pouring liquors from various bottled into a glass. "Did you ever know a man called Dexter?"

"As you said early, what's in a name?" Illya pretend to checking out the bed. "I may have met him without even knowing it. What did he look like?"

"Tall, stocky, you would have taken him as someone who'd be called a man's man. He looked equally comfortable on a sport's field as he did behind a desk."

"It's possible. Why do you ask?"

"Because you are just his type… I think. Drop your pants."

"And they say romance is dead." Illya toed off his shoes, then undid his belt and lowered his fly carefully. Going commando demanded some precautions. He slipped his pants down and brazen locked eyes with William.

"Yes, I would say you are just his type." William seemed to make a decision. "What do you like to drink, Nick?"

Illya stepped out of his pants. "I know that the perception is that all Russians prefer vodka-"

"But you aren't like all Russians, are you?"

"Scotch, if you have it. Neat."

"Let me treat you my own special blend." William attended his small bar, arranging and re-arranging bottles. Illya pretend to let his attention wander, all the while keeping track of William's hands. When the man reached for a small brown bottle, Illya had a feeling it was time. He bend to pick up his pants and hit the panic button in the buckle. He carried them over to the chair and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Here you go." William handed him a glass and Illya held it up in a salute. " _Nostrovia_ ," he said and brought the drink to his mouth. He went through the motions of drinking but did nothing more than wet his lips. From the tingling, he knew there was something powerful in that drink besides liquor.

The moment William turned, Illya dumped the contents onto the chair and dropped his shirt over the spot.

"You made short work of that."

"This type of thing always makes me thirsty." Illya held out the glass. "How about a refill?"

"Perhaps after we've finished. I wouldn't want you to sleep through things or am I just imagining that you are looking a little tired."

Illya took the subtle change in the man's voice to indicate that he should be feeling something. "Just a little dizzy. That stuff is powerful."

"I'd say a real knock out."

Illya let his knees buckle slightly and William caught him. "Yes, you are exactly the type that Dexter liked."

"You talk of him in the past tense."

"He was a good man until a money-hungry whore killed him. Was that you?"

"Nope." Illya let himself sag just a bit more, hoping that reinforcements were close at hand. While he knew he could take this man in a fair fight, he doubted this man played fair. "I never killed no one although more than one thought they died after I brought them off. You, perhaps?"

"Not at all." William pushed Illya down onto the bed and he tried not to cough as dust billowed up. "Sorry about the accommodations, but the Ritz is ill equipped to handle such things."

Illya made a great show of fighting off something. "What did you do? The drink? What did you do to the drink?"

"Oh, just a little muscle relaxant. I want you to be awake for what I'm going to do to you." William turned, holding a stiletto. "Ever been raped with a knife before? I'm going to have you screaming for mercy, then I will cut off your dick and your balls, then stuff them into your mouth before I gut you like a deer."

William took a step closer and Illya braced himself to attack him when there was a soft cough. Not one made by a person, but one made by an UNCLE special firing a sleeper bullet.

William spun with a shout, then collapsed slowly to the floor. Simultaneously, Illya was off the bed, grabbing the knife and tossing it into a far corner before turning to face his rescuer.

"I think the South Side Slaughterer's reign of terror is at an end," Illya said. "You can come out, Napoleon."

The stranger from the bar peeled himself away from the wallpaper. "You were taking a hell of a chance drinking that shit."

"I'm not an idiot, Napoleon. And you might not believe this, but I did have the situation in hand."

There was a pounding on the door and Napoleon tossed Illya his pants. He quickly pulled them on a scant moment before the door flung open and several uniformed police poured in. Behind them, Tubbs, Connor and Lewis came in, a bit more cautiously.

"He's… dead?" Tubbs didn't sound happy.

"Sleeping. We prefer to not kill if we don't have to," Napoleon said.

"What are you doing here?" That told Illya that Napoleon had not been watching him at the request of the FBI. Then, UNCLE?

"That was going to be my next question, too." Illya picked up his shirt and handed it to Lewis. "If you analyze that little brown bottle over there, I will believe that you will find it to be a powerful narcotic."

"Protecting my partner," Napoleon said, slipped his weapon back into its holster.

"Did it ever occur to you that I didn't need protecting?" Illya snapped. "I'm a competent agent, Napoleon. When are you going to accept that?"

A flurry of emotions raced across Napoleon's face, but he remained silent, simply turning and leaving the room.

"Heavens, did we insult him?" Tubbs asked.

Illya picked up his shirt and shook his head. "No idea, but I think the FBI owes me a new shirt."

"The least we can do. What was his story?"

"Oldest reason in the world - revenge. Male prostitute killed someone near and dear to him." Illya pulled on his jacket instead. "Poetic in a way." He toed William's still body. "He'll be awake in about two hours. I would put a suicide watch on him. He strikes me as the type."

Lewis held out a hand. "Thanks, Kuryakin. You're an okay guy."

"Coming from the FBI, that's high praise."

"Is everything going to be okay with your partner?"

"Who knows? He is an over-protective mother hen. I have probably just consigned myself to the typing pool for life."

"Anytime you want a change of scene."

"I think my friends back in Moscow would have something to say about that. Not to mention your friends in Washington DC. I dance to many masters, but I thank you." Illya sat to pull on his shoes. He watched as William was dragged out of the room. "Watch him carefully."

"We will."

He'd been briefed, debriefed, re-briefed and then some, first the FBI, then the NYPD, then UNCLE and he'd never seen hide nor hair of Napoleon during any of it. He half expected Waverly to tell him that he'd been reassigned to another partner, but all Waverly did was congratulate him upon his fortitude, professionalism, and cunning, none of which Illya felt really applied. He'd done his job to the best of his abilities. That's what he did. It's what he'd always done. If Napoleon couldn't handle the competition, then that was his problem.

 _Typical,_ Illya thought as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He was exhausted from the whole mess. All he wanted to do was sleep for a week. Waverly had given him two day to recoup. Added to his regular two days off, he had nearly a week off - a rare event for most agents, especially junior agents. They were usually the work horses of Section Two.

He balanced his bag of groceries on his knee and fished his keys out of his pocket. As he went to slip the key into the lock, he froze. There were faint scratches on the brass face, scratches that hadn't been there when he'd left. Not only that, but the door was ever so slightly ajar.

 _THRUSH!_

Illya set the bag of groceries down and glanced around. Content that he didn't have an audience, he eased his P-38 from its holster and pushed against the door. It opened at his touch.

He held his gun at ready and slipped inside. While it was a bright late afternoon outside, the neighboring buildings brought darkness early to his apartment. Illya didn't mind. He did his best work in the dark.

Illya eased the door closed behind him and let his eyes grow accustom to the shadows. He kept his back to the wall, just to make sure no one crept up behind him. Then he heard a noise coming from the tiny living room that doubled as his bedroom.

Quietly, he came up behind the person. He was sitting on the couch, looking through one of Illya's only keepsakes, a photo album. An odd thing for a THRUSH agent to do, then Illya's eyes widened. Not THRUSH… Napoleon.

"What are you doing here?" he asked and Napoleon's head swiveled in his direction.

"Is this a trick question? I'm looking at your photos."

"In the dark?"

"It seemed appropriate."

Illya turned on a lamp and Napoleon shielded his eyes from the sudden light. Illya was confused just a bit more than he was angry. Napoleon hadn't shaven and his five o'clock shadow gave him a scruffy look. His clothes were rumpled as though he'd slept in them.

Napoleon went back to the book. "How old were you in this?"

"Seventeen. That's my baby brother, Mykyta."

"You have a brother?"

"I have two and three sisters." Illya returned to the hallway for his grocery sack.

"All alive?"

"The last I knew, unless Svitlana has done in Vyetka. Those two, nothing but fighting. My father kept threatening to send them to Siberia for a _vacation_." Illya set the bag down on his kitchen counter and made air quotes around the word. "He hoped it would bring them together. As far as I know, Mama hasn't let him… yet."

"You have a family."

"I do." He began to unpack his groceries. Even after having been in the United States for over a year, he was still amazed every time he went shopping. All the choices and experiences waiting for him to discover and that didn't count the ethnic shops. He discovered he had quite the passion for thick deli sandwiches and messy hot dogs. Just the thought brought a smile to his lips.

"I'm sorry," Napoleon whispered.

That made Illya turn from his task and his day dreaming. "Sorry? What are you sorry for?"

"I should have never let you accept that assignment. What if I hadn't shown up then?"

"I would have disarmed him and taken him down."

"You were drugged."

"I was acting. I'm not some greenhorn going into an unfamiliar scenario. I know not to accept anything to eat or drink offered by the enemy. Hell, Cutter drilled that into our heads at every meal."

That brought a smile to Napoleon's lips. "He still remembers."

"What?"

"He was being more hard-nosed than usual, so someone, identity withheld, sprinkled some Methylene Blue onto his food that night. He peed blue for a week."

Illya laughed in spite of himself. "And the repercussions?"

"No one saw anything."

"Quite the trick on an island full of spies." Illya put some packages of meat into the freezer. "Cutter never suspected?"

"He might have suspected, but he had no proof." Napoleon closed the photo album. "I suppose I owe you an explanation."

"Yes, you do." Illya opened one of his cabinets and brought out a bottle of Scotch. He found a couple of glasses that were clean… enough and poured a generous portion in each. He added ice to one and carried them both to the couch where Napoleon was still sitting. He thrust a glass at him. "So, explain."

"I… I can't."

"Napoleon, according to people who know you, that word doesn't exist in your vocabulary."

"There aren't."

"Aren't what?"

Napoleon studied the liquor in his glass. "People who know me well. Oh, there are some who think they do, but they haven't got a clue."

Illya took a long drink and thought for a moment. "Why is that?"

"It's what we do. We hide in plain sight. People just see what they want, but they don't really have any idea, do they?"

"That you're gay, you mean?" Illya tried not to smile as Napoleon's mouth gaped.

"I'm not… I mean… how did you know?"

"Like attracts like, I assume."

"Wait… you're gay?"

"Hiding in plain view."

"Didn't your government have something to say about that?"

"Officially, a lot, but unofficially, it's considered a resource. Some are made an example of, but the rest of us go about our business. Not that different than UNCLE in many ways."

That got a reaction from Napoleon. "I beg your pardon! UNCLE is nothing like the KGB!"

Illya held up a hand in surrender. "I'm not saying that. I'm saying that UNCLE discovers and hones each agent's specialty, like my propensity for explosives. The more exclusive the talent, the more valuable the agent becomes… wait, is that was this is all about?"

"I've lost you."

"That I'm too valuable to be put into the field? Is that why I'm a glorified secretary for you?"

"No, Illya, it isn't." Napoleon looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't know how to say this other than to just say this. I don't have a good track record with partners. They usually wind up dead or worse. I like you, Illya. I like you a lot."

"And not in just a professional sense?"

"No, not just professionally. I know that conventional relationships don't usually work out for Section Two agents."

"But unconventional ones?"

"I didn't want anything to happen to you. I thought by keeping you in the office, I could protect you. Keep you safe until… until I had to guts to tell you how I felt."

"Napoleon, I'm not a china doll that needs to be protected. I need to do what I have been trained to do."

"I know. There's also… well, what if you're a better agent than I am?"

Illya laughed now. "What if I am? There will always be someone better at something than you are. It's life."

For a long moment, they sat in quiet, each lost in their own thoughts and drink. Finally, Napoleon set his half empty glass aside. "So what do we do now?"

"Well, I think first I will make us something to eat and then it's time for a talk. A long, detailed talk."

"About?"

"The shape of things to come." Illya leaned forward and kissed Napoleon quickly. "I have a feeling there's lots to say."

Illya pushed his glasses back up his nose and then turned the page of the book he was reading.

" _Stranger in a Strange Land_ ," Alex read aloud. "I never pegged you for science fiction."

"Heinlein thought it was more a sociopolitical satire of sex and religion in contemporary culture."* Illya closed the book and set it aside. "You're trying the fish? You have more courage than I do."

Alex laughed. "Fish is good for you."

"Not Canteen fish."

"Your assignment went well?"

"It did or at least the FBI is convinced it has its man."

"And you are all right."

Illya smiled as Napoleon approached and sat down. "Never better."

"Solo." Alex acknowledged.

"Agent Haggins. How are you doing?"

"He's about to eat the fish. I think we should alert Medical."

"You're made of sterner stuff than me." Napoleon stood up again. "Coffee, anyone?"

"I could do with a refill."

"Okay, and after you've finished, I have an assignment for us. There's a coup down in Venezuela that needs looking after."

"Okay, are we starting or finishing one?"

"I think both."

Napoleon walked away and Alex looked back at Illya. "You have finally convinced him to let you go into the field? I'm impressed. How did you do it?"

"Ah, Alex, you know a good agent never tells, even under interrogation." Illya smiled and winked. He watched Napoleon weave through the tables, stopping to flirt with this woman or that one. "My lips are sealed."

* /article/64993/15-things-you-might-not-know-about-stranger-strange-land


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